


Child of the Mortal Realm

by vilia



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst with a Happy Ending, Caring for the dead, Feelings of guilt, Ghosts, Graphic Violence, Graphic depiction of a corpse, Grief/Mourning, Heavy Angst, I promise, M/M, Memento mori, temporary major character death
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-01-06
Updated: 2020-07-09
Packaged: 2021-02-27 14:53:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 12,029
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22138864
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vilia/pseuds/vilia
Summary: When Arthur last saw Merlin, he was wrapped in white linen, his body aflame on a funeral pyre. It should have been the end, and yet…
Relationships: Merlin/Arthur Pendragon (Merlin)
Comments: 23
Kudos: 118





	1. The End

**Author's Note:**

> I probably shouldn't be posting this yet considering how much I still have to do on the rest of the story, and the fact that I've already started posting another WIP, but I've been working on this story for over a year already, Ch 1 is finally 100% complete, and I just want it off my plate, so... uh, enjoy? That might not be the right sentiment for this chapter. Sorry.

Arthur raises his sword to block the first blow as a tall, thin man with a jagged scar across his cheek bears down on him. He pushes his attacker back with more effort than is strictly required so that the bandit will be forced to step away. It’s enough to give Arthur a second to locate Merlin, who has no weapon and is dodging a man wielding an axe, before his opponent is on him again. 

_“Merlin!_ ”

The attack itself isn’t all that unexpected, not really. Bandits are a fact of life. The only thing particularly different about this situation is that the bandits have attacked the village with Arthur’s men present, instead of waiting until the patrol had passed. They have the numbers for it though, so maybe they don’t care. Either that or they’re too stupid to bother with a last-minute check, hadn’t realized that Arthur and his men were here until the fighting had already begun. The reasoning is of little consequence.

“I’m fine!” Merlin shouts, his voice sounding further away than he’d expected.

Arthur isn’t sure how, but the next time he manages another glimpse of Merlin, he’s the one with the axe, and the man that had attacked him is now sprawled on the ground. A stroke of divine luck perhaps. Then again, maybe not because heaven help them all, _Merlin with an axe_. He’s going to get himself killed. He’s not even holding it right. It’s like he thinks he’s about to go chop some firewood.

“Don’t try fighting with that thing, you idiot! Stay close to me!”

Before Arthur can do more, he’s pulled back into his own fight. It doesn’t take him long. These bandits are clearly organized. They’re all wearing the same sort of red and black fabric tied around their upper arm, but from what Arthur’s seen so far, they aren’t particularly skilled. These are just ordinary brigands, peasants turned desperate by poverty or circumstance. They’re not soldiers from a neighbouring kingdom looking to invade.

Arthur yanks his sword free from the corpse he’s just created. The dead man hasn’t even hit the ground before Arthur’s eyes are darting about in search of Merlin again. Arthur finds him, even further away than before, standing partially in front of a young boy, maybe 8 or 10 years old. He’s still got his axe, and surprisingly, he’s doing a decent enough job of fending off the bandit in front of him, manages to disarm the man, send him reaching for the ground to retrieve his weapon. What Merlin doesn’t see as he lifts his axe to deliver the final blow is the second man—a shaggy brute with a cudgel in one hand and an arming sword in the other—coming up from behind. 

It happens so fast, Arthur doesn’t even have time to shout a full warning. The boy goes down first with a crack on the side of his head, then the man swings his sword as if he intends to take Merlin’s head off.

Arthur charges over, runs his sword through the man that Merlin had been fighting off. Suddenly, Gwaine is there too, taking down the second man, the one whose sword is slick with Merlin’s blood. Arthur’s never been so disappointed at seeing one of his own men bring down an enemy; he’d wanted to unleash his sudden rage on the bastard himself.

Merlin’s eyes are wide with shock and he’s clutching at his throat, but he’s still standing, and for a second, Arthur thinks maybe this isn’t what he’d assumed. That Merlin has somehow pulled off another of his unexplainable escapes, another of his miracles. Then he crumples to the ground, coughing and choking on his own blood, and everything around Arthur falls away. His sword slips from his fingers. The fighting all around him is meaningless. In the whole world, there’s only Merlin, on the ground, bleeding. Dying.

Arthur drops down beside him, puts a hand to the wound, knowing it’s useless. He’s no physician’s assistant, but he knows a mortal wound when he sees one. And yet, some small part of him still rebels against the knowledge, whispers in his head that this isn’t what it looks like, can’t be.

Blood seeps between his fingers, hot and terrible, and Merlin’s watching him, his brow twisted with pain and a deep sadness that Arthur’s not sure he fully understands. Something more than the loss of his life.

Arthur chokes down a sob, all the words he wants to say fleeing from his grasp. He wants to tell Merlin how important he is. Wants to tell him that he’s going to be okay without lying. He can’t quite manage to get anything intelligible to pass his lips.

Merlin fumbles for Arthur’s hand, holds it to his heart. He stares into Arthur’s eyes, tries to tell him… Arthur isn’t sure what. That he’ll be okay, that he’s a good king, that it’s been an honour to serve him, that he’s sorry to be leaving him. It must be something like that. He has that soft but focused look in his eyes that he always has when he tells Arthur these sorts of things.

“Merlin, I…”

Merlin nods his head in a small, jerky motion, as if he knows what Arthur is trying to say, but how can he? Arthur doesn’t even know himself. Merlin’s fingers, wet with blood, slip against Arthur’s as he holds tighter, then weaker, and he’s gone.

“No.” This can’t be happening.

He pulls Merlin close, resting their foreheads together. Hot tears drop from Arthur’s eyes and roll across Merlin’s skin. He squeezes his eyes shut tight and screams at the injustice of it all, pounds his fist against the earth until he’s bleeding.

It isn’t as though he hasn’t seen friends die before. He has. He’s seen it a lot in fact, and in far more gruesome ways. Last month Caradoc had his belly sliced open by a wild boar during a hunt. Arthur had seen the man from only a dozen paces away, his guts spilling out while the knight fought unconsciousness and pain to hold them in with trembling hands. And back at the end of spring, Gaheris had taken an axe to the head in a border skirmish with Lot’s men. Despite the gaping wound and the visible brain matter, he’d held on for over an hour before passing on to the next life.

Arthur sits there, cradling Merlin’s body in his arms, while all around him, the battle continues. His knights must be defending him because no one interrupts his grieving. They should have been protecting Merlin this diligently instead.

-x-x-

It’s calm when someone says, “We’ll take care of him, sire,” and tries pulling him away.

Arthur throws his elbow back into the gut of whoever it is and struggles free of the grip. “No! I’ll do it myself.” He stands, takes a few moments to collect himself, then hauls Merlin’s body off the ground and staggers his way to a vacant hut.

One of the villagers, an elderly woman with a nasty bruise on her forehead and a notable limp, brings him a bucket of fresh water, a washing cloth, and a large linen sheet to wrap Merlin in when the dirt and blood are all washed away.

Merlin’s skin is slightly cool to the touch as Arthur begins the process of peeling away his blood-soaked clothes so he can be washed one last time. Normally, it was a person’s family that would do this—if you are a commoner anyway. People like Arthur have servants that handle this sort of thing when they die. Arthur had fully expected that Merlin would perform this service for him one day.

Arthur tugs off Merlin’s boots and his rough woolen socks. His feet are a mass of callouses, and a few tiny blisters had rubbed their way onto the little toe of his left foot. They look fresh, like Merlin had got them on this trip despite having ridden a horse most of the way. Were his boots really so ill fitting that such a small amount of walking had given him blisters? And why hadn’t he said anything? Merlin liked to complain about everything, but he hadn’t said a word about his feet.

It isn’t only Merlin’s feet that give Arthur pause. His knees are covered in bruises and all Arthur can think of are all the times he’d ordered Merlin onto his knees to scrub his floor clean.

Merlin must have had a full bladder when he died because the still warm liquid seeps out of his body, wetting his trousers. Arthur’s been around enough dead bodies to know this isn’t uncommon. He half expects he’ll have to deal with more than just urine, but he doesn’t. He clenches his jaw as he tries to remember the last time he’d seen Merlin eat and realizes that he can’t. That he doesn’t know.

Merlin had cooked Arthur breakfast that morning, had cooked breakfast for all the knights in fact, as though he were the army cook instead of Arthur’s personal servant. If Arthur had seen Merlin eat any of that food himself, he doesn’t remember.

He washes Merlin’s skin, wipes away the splatters of blood and spit dried on this lips and chin, the dirt from their journey on his hands and cheeks. He washes away sweat and rinses out his hair and applies a fragrant oil that is brought in after he’s already been working for some time.

Arthur removes Merlin’s ratty old neckerchief last, exposing the grotesque wound that had taken his life. He tries not to look too closely, but it gapes, exposing the dark red inner workings of Merlin’s neck. The blood is mostly dried by now, and Arthur has to press at the edges of the wound to get his skin clean.

He takes his time, does it right, and when Merlin is laid out clean and dry, he asks for a needle and gut to sew up the gash in his neck. He knows it doesn’t matter, but he can’t bear for Merlin to go to his funeral with a hole in his body like that. It isn’t something he’s done before, but he’d watched as Merlin stitched him up a few times after battles and so he knows what he is supposed to do. He doesn’t have any skill with it though, and his dexterity is further limited by a sore right hand that is scraped and bruised for some reason he can’t even remember. Each messy stitch irritates him more than the last.

“Sorry,” he says out loud. Even knowing that Merlin can’t feel anything, pressing the needle into his flesh adds another layer to his pain. “I’m doing my best.”

It takes more physical force than he’d expected. Merlin is made of tougher stuff than Arthur had given him credit for.

When the sewing is finally done, he redresses Merlin in a loose-fitting undershirt from Merlin’s pack and lays him out on top of the makeshift burial shroud. There’s not much Arthur can do about the arrangement of his limbs. Merlin’s joints had gone stiff before Arthur even pulled him off the ground, but his hands are still over his heart where they’d been when he died, and that is good enough. A little girl that Arthur had seen Merlin talking with before the attack brings a small spray of wildflowers, and Arthur slips them underneath Merlin’s hands before he begins to wrap the shroud around his body.

Arthur begins at Merlin’s feet and legs, moves up to his torso, then his shoulders and that poorly repaired wound, until only his head is left bare. He should just get on with it, but he doesn’t. He pulls out his dagger, cuts a small lock of Merlin’s hair, wraps it safely in a scrap of fabric, and tucks it into his coin pouch. Then he pulls up a stool, stares at Merlin’s pale, lifeless face. It looks so wrong. Merlin is supposed to be smiling, or brooding, or teasing, or… or anything but this. Arthur runs a hand through his hair on the pretense of working in into the fashion that Merlin usually kept it. But then he stops, rests his hand at the top of his head. It feels as though Arthur will never be able to move again. Like the whole world should stop with him.

Arthur sits with Merlin through the night, enduring short visits from others who want to pay their final respects. They’re quite for the most part, and Arthur ignores them when he can, but he’s still the king. He has decisions to make even at a time like this.

Leon brings news of the child Merlin died to protect. Seeing as the boy is still unconscious and no one in the village has any significant medical knowledge, Arthur charges Leon with seeing the boy safely back to Camelot. Gaius will know what to do. Arthur won’t allow Merlin’s sacrifice to be for nothing.

It’s not until Leon is long gone that Arthur heaves out a heavy breath of relief as he finally comprehends the unexpected benefit of sending Leon ahead; he’s not going to have to be the one to tell Gaius of Merlin’s death.

In the morning, the knights build a pyre. Most of the villagers are being buried, but cremation is what Merlin had done for that childhood friend of his, so Arthur wants that for Merlin as well.

The knights learn early on that Arthur is in no mood for the usual funeral day talk. He doesn’t want to hear stories of how Merlin did this or that. How he saved someone’s life or cheered them up in a moment of darkness. He is still waiting to wake up from this nightmare.

When it’s time, Arthur stands before the pyre, watching as Merlin’s body disappears into smoke and ash. He watches for hours, until the flames begin to die down. It’s painful, turning away. But then, everything is painful about this day.

A niggling thought keeps replaying in his mind, telling him he shouldn’t feel as bad as he does, because tomorrow or the next day, he’s going to be able to wake up and make a different decision that will fix everything—that he’s going to get another chance to do things right, keep Merlin safe and by his side.

Hours later, Gwaine enters the hut Arthur is using as his personal quarters carrying a clay jar. There’s a cloth stretched across the top and a leather thong keeping it tight so the contents won’t be lost.

“Thought you might want to take these yourself.” Gwaine sets the jar on the rough wooden table. “I can do it, if you’re not—”

“Thank you. Yes.”

Arthur takes a deep breath. He knows what’s inside, but doesn’t want to think about it. Doesn’t want to think about the fragments of bone that are the only thing left of his manservant—of his truest friend. He doesn’t want to think about it, but he does. They’ll have been cleaned so they’re not covered in ash. Arthur pulls the jar closer. It’s such a small thing to hold something as valuable as the earthly remains of his only true friend. He’ll have to send them to Hunith along with a letter that he has no idea how to write.

He is dreading it already. What can he possibly say? _You bore and raised a brave, kind, loyal, and wise son. And I got him killed. Sorry._

Any financial compensation he could offer would be far too little. Offering her nothing doesn’t feel right either, but what could he ever offer that would even begin to atone for this?

Arthur turns back to say something to Gwaine, but the knight is gone now, and Arthur can’t say how long ago that happened.

-x-x-

Gaius is in the middle of brewing a tincture for Lady Enid when Sir Leon bursts through the door. He holds it open for Sir Percival, who rushes in behind him, carrying a limp boy in his arms.

“What’s this?”

“Head wound in a raid two days ago. Hasn’t woken since.”

“What has been done for him?”

“Just what you see.”

Gaius takes a moment to inspect the hasty bandaging caked with dried blood and dirt.

“Merlin knows better than this. He should never have allowed the boy to be moved. He should have treated the boy himself at the site, not sent him all this way to me.”

“It was Arthur that sent us.”

“I’ll have to have a word with him. Merlin is plenty capable, even if he doesn’t always let on.”

Percival and Leon share a long look between themselves.

“What is it?” Gaius says, already easing off the bandages and assessing the wound. There is a fracture in the skull, likely inflammation of the brain. This child will never fully be himself again, if he recovers at all.

Neither of the knights have a response, and Gaius is short on patience already. He snaps, “Well, out with it. I’m an old man with much to do.”

“It’s about Merlin.”

Gaius pauses. That tone… That tone does not bode well.

“I’m afraid…” Percival begins, and when his explanation doesn’t go anywhere, Leon steps in.

“Arthur and the rest won’t be returning for several days. There were casualties. Merlin was among them. I’m sorry.”

“When you say casualties…”

“His suffering was over quickly.”

Gaius pauses in his work, mind racing, trying to come up with an explanation for those words other than the obvious.

“No, that’s not possible.”

Merlin has so much left to do with his life. He’s the most powerful sorcerer to ever walk the earth. An ordinary man can’t simply kill him as if he were a common soldier.

“Did you see it happen?”

“No.”

“Arthur was with him at the end. He’s insisting on the full rites. He’s being honoured as a hero, as if he were a knight instead of a servant.”

Gaius clings desperately for a moment to the knowledge that Arthur had been with Merlin when it happened, that perhaps things aren’t as the knights believe. Perhaps Arthur had discovered Merlin’s magic and sent him away for his own safety until he could change the law and… and this story of his death is simply ruse to… He knows it is a ridiculous hope. Arthur is king. All the protection Merlin needs is Arthur’s word, no matter what the laws say. Still, it has to be something. Merlin simply cannot be dead.


	2. Empty Handed

Arthur comes to Gaius’s chambers first thing upon his return to Camelot. Gaius does a quick visual check for injuries out of habit. There are a few bruises on his arms and hands, but no obvious cuts, and he moves freely—no limping or stiffness. Despite the lack of obvious physical ailments, he looks terrible—rough, worn-out, like he hasn’t slept in days. His eyes stray back to the door to Merlin’s room, and he clenches his jaw, looks away, goes to stand beside the cot where Gaius’s young patient lies, his pale face peeking out from heavy blankets.

“How is he?” Arthur says.

“I’m afraid he hasn’t awoken, my lord.”

Arthur presses a fist against his mouth and Gaius realizes with a start that he’s struggling not to cry. That he’s desperately holding it all in, and this is what finally convinces him that Merlin is truly gone, because Merlin would never leave Arthur to _this._

Gaius swallows a sudden lump in his throat, uses all his experience in delivering bad news and dealing first hand with death to hold off tears of his own.

After a few minutes of complete silence, Arthur lowers his hand, says, “Merlin died defending that boy. You have to see that he lives, Gaius. I don’t care how.”

“My lord?”

“I don’t... I don’t care how. Understand?”

Gaius nods, not entirely surprised. Arthur has been willing to use magic before after all, but in those situations, Gaius hadn’t been the one using magic. He will have to tell M— But no. Merlin is gone. That’s the whole problem. 

Arthur continues to watch the boy until finally, he clears his throat, says, “I don’t even know his name.”

“Ambrosius, my lord. Or so Sir Leon tells me.”

“That’s a rather formal name for such a small boy.”

“Percival and Leon have taken to calling him Ambrose. I think it might stick.” For however much longer it even matters. A few days, perhaps. A couple of weeks at most.

“Did they tell you anything else about him? I’m afraid I was… focused on other matters when his condition was brought to my attention.”

Gaius fills him in on what little he knows. That the child is an orphan, his father taken by illness when he was three or four, that his mother died in the raid four days ago. No siblings, no living grandparents, just an uncle that none of the villagers have seen in years.

Arthur listens to it all, nods as if coming to a decision. “Once he’s recovered, he’ll stay here in Camelot.”

It’s not right to give Arthur false hope about the boy’s recovery. Even using what magic Gauis has isn’t likely to change anything. But he’ll try. For the child, for Merlin. For himself. And he’ll spare Arthur for now. He’s been through enough.

Arthur turns to go, pauses, says, “I’m sorry, Gaius.” The words catch in his throat, but he pushes on, like he always does. “I know he was like a son to you. I tried—”

“I know. Merlin he… He was often reckless. I warned him so many times that he needed to be more careful. That he was going to get himself killed one day. I guess I never really believed it.”

“No. Me neither. Somehow, it always felt like he was invincible.”

Then Arthur sweeps from the room, and Gaius has no one left to appear strong for.

-x-x-

Arthur stares at the blank page, dips his pen into the ink pot and sets the nib to the paper, watches as the ink spreads out into a blob. It doesn’t matter. This is a draft anyway. He writes, “Dear Hunith.” Below that, he tries a variety of possibilities:

~~I regret to inform you~~

~~It is with my utmost~~

~~I’m so sorry to~~

~~There’s no easy way to~~

~~Merlin and I were~~

He crumples the page. He can’t even get a full sentence out. It’s ridiculous. It isn’t as if he hasn’t had to write this sort of letter before. What would he write if this were any other servant in his household? Or if it were a knight? He tries to recall what he’d written to Gaheris’s widow and comes up empty.

There’s a knock at the door, and Arthur takes a moment to straighten his clothes and hair, to compose his expression into a careful, blank mask, before allowing his visitor to enter.

Gwaine steps into Arthur’s chambers, closes the door behind him. He says, “I’d like to be the one to deliver Merlin’s remains to his mother in Ealdor.”

Gwaine is a good choice. Arthur knows that. He and Merlin had been good friends, and Gwaine was a skilled enough knight to make the journey on his own without trouble. He should say yes, finish writing his letter the same as he would if this were anyone else, and be done with it. He glances over to the jar with Merlin’s remains. His stomach drops at the thought of letting anyone else handle them, even Gwaine, who Arthur is well aware cared for Merlin a great deal.

“No,” Arthur says.

“No?” Gwaine steps closer.

“No,” Arthur says again, this time with more conviction. “I’m going to do it.” This isn’t something he’d planned, but now that he’s saying it, it feels right.

Gwaine stalks all the way up to the edge of the desk, jabs a finger at Arthur. “You’re not the only one that cared about him, you know?”

Gwaine is practically looming over him, but Arthur refuses to be baited into rising from his chair. “I don’t want you to come.”

“I want to give my sympathies to his mother.”

“You’ve never even met her.”

“So? How is that relevant?”

“The news will be easier coming from me. Hunith knows me. I’ve stayed in her home. She’s cooked meals for me.”

“Fine. So you tell her yourself. Doesn’t mean I can’t come and talk with her after.” Gwaine pauses, softens his tone. “Merlin wouldn’t have wanted you to go alone.”

Arthur hangs his head, runs his hands over his face. Fucking Gwaine. Saying the one thing he knows Arthur can’t argue against. He lifts his eyes and gives Gwaine a hard glare. “I want _no_ chatter.”

Gwaine grunts what sounds like an agreement. “I’m not in the mood for talk anyway.”

Gwaine hadn’t been lying. Arthur doesn’t have to give him a single warning the entire way. He’s terse and broody and that suites Arthur just fine. They haven’t rushed, but the journey doesn’t seem to take anywhere near long enough. He wouldn’t mind a few bandits along the way—someone he doesn’t have to feel guilty about taking his aggression out on. What he gets is a peaceful journey and before Arthur’s worked out what to say when he arrives, they’re packing away their cloaks at the border with Essetir.

From there, it’s a short ride to Ealdor where the villagers don’t need the Pendragon crest to recognize him. Mutters of “King Arthur!” spread as he rides into the village. People stop their labours and gravitate toward him as if expecting a speech or announcement. He ignores all of them and heads straight to Hunith’s.

She is hauling a bucket of water back from the well when he spots her. She sets the bucket down, steps closer, bows, and says, “Your Highness! It’s good to see you.”

She smiles up at him, and Arthur nearly breaks down right there.

She looks around. “Where’s Merlin?”

He dismounts, gives the reins to Gwaine, and unstraps the blanket wrapped urn.

“We should speak privately.”

She casts her eyes around again, nods, and leads them the rest of the way to her home. Arthur pauses before following her in.

Arthur nods back at the crowd of villagers lingering nearby. To Gwaine, he says, “Keep that lot out of hearing range, would you?”

“Knew you’d want me along.” Gwaine gives a forced grin, then frowns. “You’ll do all right.”

Hunith is waiting for him, hands clenched together nervously at her waist. “Where is my son, Your Majesty?” she says when the door is finally shut. “Is he in trouble?”

Arthur’s jaw works, but he can’t make any sound come out.

Her expression grows more distressed by the second. “Please tell me he’s not been… You didn’t execute him, did you?”

Arthur splutters out an incredulous laugh. “What? Execute? Of course not!” Where would such a ridiculous thought have come from? She looks somewhat relieved at the response, but she shouldn’t be relieved; the truth isn’t much better.

“We were in a village on the east edge of Camelot, near the border with Mercia. There was an attack.” The words begin to cling to his throat, turning his voice rough. “Merlin left my side to defend a small boy and— I’m so sorry. It’s my fault.” He unwraps his bundle, meaning to pass Merlin’s bone fragments over to Hunith but finds himself clutching at them as if he’s physically incapable of letting go.

“What’s in the jar, my lord?” Hunith’s voice is soft, cautious.

She knows what this is. She just doesn’t want to believe it yet. She’s waiting for him to tell her it isn’t what she’s thinking, that everything is fine.

He breaks down then, covers his mouth with one hand to stifle the sobs. His vision goes blurry with tears and regret. “He was my responsibility, and I failed him.”

His legs feel a bit unsteady now, and he sits on a nearby bench, still facing Hunith.

“No.” She shakes her head. “There must be some mistake.”

“There’s no mistake. I saw it happen myself.”

“An enchantment then. To make it appear as if—”

He looks down at his hands. “I held him in my arms as he died. It was definitely him.”

Then Hunith is on the floor at his feet, weeping, and Arthur has to pull himself together, say the right things for a change.

He sniffs his nose and clears his throat. “He was the bravest man I ever met. And loyal and wise and I… I don’t know how…” He pauses, debating if he should admit to such weaknesses and decides that Merlin deserves the truth. “I don’t know how to be king without him at my side.”

Hunith looks up, puts a hand on his knee. “He loved you too, Arthur.”

Hunith has never addressed him like that before, without a title or honorific of any kind. He likes it, makes him feel like she’s family, but what she’s saying…

A fat teardrop spills over onto his cheek. “He tolerated me. Wish I could have proven myself to him.”

They sit there together, quite for a time. It gives Arthur too much space to think. His thoughts spiral through what has become their usual pattern over the last few days. He never should have teased Merlin about hiding during fights. He might still be alive if he hadn’t been trying to be so damn heroic. Arthur shouldn’t have dragged Merlin out on that patrol in the first place. He would definitely still be alive if Arthur had let him stay safely in Camelot. He’s a damned useless excuse for a king. He isn’t even an adequate knight. All he’d needed to do was protect one servant during a minor scuffle with untrained bandits, and he’d failed.

Now here he is, and Hunith isn’t even angry with him when this is clearly his fault. She should be irate. Even discounting the fact that Arthur let Merlin die, he hadn’t even treated Merlin well when he was alive. Arthur had called him idiot and coward, had all too often used him as a means to vent whatever happened to be his latest frustration, and had generally kept him too busy running around with chores—many of which could have been handled by another servant—for much of anything else. He hadn’t even allowed Merlin the occasional few days off that he would have needed to come check up on Hunith. Given his current company, the guilt at that last point gnaws at him particularly hard.

“I should have given him more time off to visit you. Truth is,” Arthur has to pause to gather up the strength to voice the rest of his confession. “I didn’t like being apart from him, not even for a single day.”

Hunith picks herself up off the ground, unties the leather thong keeping the cloth top on the jar, reaches in, and carefully removes a small bone fragment. She takes a handkerchief from a chest beside the bed, and wraps the piece of bone as if it were the most fragile glass.

“Would you like to keep the rest with you?”

“You’re his mother. You should have them.”

“This is enough for me. I think he would have liked to stay with you.”

Arthur seals the jar back up, studiously not looking inside.

“You said… He’d been protecting a child?”

“Yes. Ambrose is the boy’s name. He’s not well. He took a blow to the head and hasn’t woken.” He tries to instill a confidence in his voice that he doesn’t feel. “But Gaius is tending him. Gaius is the best. Merlin’s sacrifice won’t be for nothing.”

“I want to see him.”

“He’s not in any condition to travel.”

“I’ll come to Camelot, then. I’ll return with you.”

Arthur wants to argue. What if those bandits he’d been wishing for on the way here attack on the return journey? What if he fails to protect Hunith in the same way he’d failed to protect Merlin?

Hunith has a stubborn set to her jaw that Arthur recognizes, and he knows that if he tries leaving her here in Ealdor, she’ll follow after him—just like Merlin had always done when Arthur tried telling him to stay where it was safe. She can’t possibly be safer on her own than in Arthur and Gwaine’s company. And maybe it really is a good thing Gwaine had insisted on coming along. He’s a good fighter. He’ll keep Hunith safe if Arthur can’t.

“We’ll leave in the morning,” Arthur says, then steps outside to get some fresh air and allow Gwaine his turn to speak with Hunith in private.

-x-x-

The return trip to Camelot is as uneventful as the journey out. When Arthur gets back to his chambers, that annoying George fellow has a steaming hot bath ready for him with fresh clothes laid out, and a tray of meat, cheese, and bread on his table. Arthur wants to tip the basin over, throw the clothes in the fire, and upend the tray.

“You may leave. I won’t need your help in the morning.”

If Arthur can get things worked out quickly enough, that will be the last time he has to see George and his disgusting imitation Merlin clothing in his chambers. The man is extremely efficient at his job, but Arthur can’t bear the thought of having George as his permanent manservant. Merlin hadn’t wanted him to have a bootlicker for a servant. There’s no way he’ll be able to find someone who can backtalk the way Merlin did, but at least he should be able to find someone neutral. Someone who doesn’t preen with satisfaction every time he does something right.

With the horrible task of breaking the news to Hunith out of the way, Arthur had expected to have some relief when he returned to Camelot, but it’s actually worse. There’s nowhere he can go that doesn’t call attention to Merlin’s absence. He tries throwing himself into his duties, but when he’s at court, his eyes drift to the side where Merlin should be standing. When he wakes, it’s not Merlin’s face that first greets him. It’s not Merlin that serves his meals or cleans his chambers. Merlin’s not there to watch him train the knights or to scare off game during a hunt. Merlin had fully integrated himself into every facet of Arthur’s life, and it feels like a mistake to have ever allowed that to happen, because what is he supposed to do now?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Going back and rereading some comments I see that I'd said that Chapter 2 would be a lot longer than Chapter 1. Obviously that didn't happen. To make things simpler for myself, I've split what was going to be Chapter 2 into at least 2 separate parts. I might end up splitting it again too. Sometimes shorter chapters are just easier for me to work with, especially when I'm having problems focusing (like now).


	3. The Pull

Merlin’s thoughts are slow to order themselves. He builds his internal narrative back up one piece at a time. His name first, then the image of his mother and their home in E… Ealdor. Magic. Gaius. Camelot. And… and Arthur. That last thought sends a jolt straight to his core. Where is Arthur? The last thing Merlin can remember… The last thing…

Fighting. A raid. Arthur easily fending off a man a full head taller. A scared little boy, alone in the middle of all the killing.

Everything after that is too foggy to have any confidence in, but he would remember if Arthur’d been injured, right? Merlin’s not nearly as sure as he’d like to be about that. He tries to stir but nothing happens. He tries calling out but produces no sound. Something strange is happening. He feels… No that’s not quite right. It’s more like there’s an unusual lack of feeling. It’s almost as if he’s on the cusp of sleep, but he’s not sure which direction he’s going.

He quickly loses patience trying to figure out what’s going on and why. He can worry about that later—after he’s found Arthur, made sure he’s okay. Gods, if something’s happened to him, Merlin will… He’ll just— Merlin’s thoughts spiral out of control from there. He imagines a dozen different possibilities, each one worse than the last. Arthur hurt and alone, bloodied and bruised, injured beyond the point of defending himself, and Merlin not there to take care of him, protect him.

Arthur’s voice drifts into Merlin’s awareness. He’s somewhere nearby, speaking softly. The words are too gentle to be directed toward him, but at least he knows that Arthur is safe. That’s the most important thing. The new information is a highly effective balm on his troubled mind.

As Merlin relaxes, safe in the knowledge that Arthur is okay, his vision clears and for the first time he notices that everything had been dark before. Something’s still not quite right though. The whole world looks washed out, faded. He’s outside for some reason, not in bed like he’d thought he should be. He turns in a full circle. No one else is in sight, but there’s smoke lingering in the air.

 _From the raid,_ he thinks. _The bandits must have set fire to some of the homes._ Except he doesn’t see the burnt out remains of anything large enough to have been a building. There’s a smoldering pile of embers next to him. It’s too large to have been a cook fire, but too small for—

Before he can finish the thought, a strange, murky gateway appears before him, and he has the odd compulsion to see what’s on the other side. He should check it out. Make sure it’s safe. Then he can report back to Arthur, let him know what he’s found. Maybe Arthur will appreciate his initiative for once.

Passing through the gateway isn’t as simple as walking through an open door. There’s a pressure at the threshold and Merlin has to force his way through. Once he’s started, he decides that maybe this gate isn’t as much a doorway as it is a long, dark corridor, because he feels like he’s moving but there’s nothing to see and he never seems to arrive on the other side.

Eventually, something comes into view from out of the darkness—a familiar woman in long robes blocking his path.

“Emrys,” the Cailleach says by way of greeting and suddenly everything makes a horrifying amount of sense. Merlin is dead. He’s _dead_ and he’s gone off and left everyone and everything he ever cared for. He’d willingly stepped through that gateway without a moment’s hesitation. He’s left his mother and Gaius. Left Arthur and Camelot and his destiny.

A crushing wave of despair threatens to overtake him, but before Merlin can descend into regret any deeper than he already has, the Cailleach says, “You are not supposed to be here.”

Hope flares bright as the rational part of himself kicks into gear. “Of course I’m not. Send me back and we’ll pretend this never happened.” Was that even possible? Merlin didn’t know much about the Cailleach, just what little Gaius had told him when Morgana had torn the veil.

“That is beyond my power, for your mortal body is no more. Only the gods can truly resurrect someone in your condition.”

Merlin tries to look on the bright side. His father must be on the other side. And Lancelot and Will. He’s missed having friends that know about his magic. But… does he even have magic anymore? How does that work when you’re dead? Seeing as he has not choice but to find out, Merlin takes a step closer toward the Cailleach.

She raises her hand, palm toward Merlin, warding him off. “These gates are closed to you.”

“What am I supposed to do then?”

She points behind him, back the way he’d come.

“But you said—”

She points more insistently and Merlin glances over his shoulder, sees nothing but the tiniest pinprick of light surrounded on all sides by darkness. When he looks back to the Cailleach, she’s vanished from sight.

What the hell is he supposed to do now? He’s dead and the afterlife won’t take him. He can’t just stay here for all eternity, but the only other choice is… He turns back the way he’d come. That pinprick of light glows from what looks like miles away. He starts moving in that direction.

After some time—it’s impossible to tell how long—the pinprick starts to grow. Merlin keeps going. He doesn’t feel tired, not in the way he is used to, but he does get impatient. It hadn’t taken this long to get to the Cailleach, had is? Why is it taking so long to get back? And just what is he going to do when he gets there? He won’t be able to talk to anyone or touch anything. Right? It sounds… lonely.

-x-x-

Servants scurry out of Arthur’s way everywhere he goes. Even the knights are stepping lightly around him. At training that afternoon, he might have been a little too rough on them, but he doesn’t feel particularly guilty about it. Battles don’t only happen in good conditions. You aren’t always at your best. They need to be prepared for that.

Arthur eats his dinner alone in the great hall instead of in his private chambers. He is just as alone here as he would be there—he’d sent the servants away as soon as the table was laid, he knows perfectly well how to pour his own wine—but the feeling of aloneness would be far greater there. Merlin would always be with him when he dined in his rooms. Keeping his cup full and the conversation flowing, even when Arthur would have preferred quiet. The quiet now is infuriating.

The roast goose tastes bland. He should speak with the cook about it, but he doesn’t have the energy. He forces himself to choke down another few bites because he’d skipped lunch completely, then pushes his plate away. He washes it down with the rest of his wine then pours himself another cup. It’s a bad idea to get drunk. Merlin would surely have scolded him for it. And that thought alone is enough to have Arthur tipping his head back, pouring the wine into his system all in one go.

He stares at the lavish table setting. He should have asked Gaius and Hunith to dine with him. At least then he wouldn’t be alone, but he can’t really bring himself to face the pair of them just yet. After returning to Camelot, he’d seen Hunith to the physician’s chambers, told her not to hesitated to let him know if there was anything at all that she needed, then he’d left, hoping she would never take him up on his offer and that he would be able to avoid her, possibly for the rest of his life.

She is a kind woman, very patient and understanding. That only makes it worse. He might feel better… well, maybe not _better_ , but slightly less awful perhaps, if she would scream at him, hit him even. He deserves it. He deserves a lot worse.

There is still a good deal of wine in the pitcher. He considers the headache and nausea he’ll feel tomorrow if he keeps this up, then pours himself another cup.

-x-x-

The sun is low on the horizon when Merlin finds himself in a small village. There had been no definitive barrier that he’d passed from that place between worlds back to the moral realm. The light had just kept growing until he suddenly thought to look back and found that instead of blackness, the village was all around him.

It’s still strange somehow, off, like before he’d entered the gateway. Like the colors aren’t as bright as they should be. And though there’s barely a cloud in the sky, he feels no warmth from the sun. Neither does he feel the light breeze that rustles the leaves on the trees. It’s all a little unnerving.

There doesn’t seem to be anyone about. He moves down the narrow, hard packed earth road. There’s a handful of small stone and thatch homes but little else. The place has a familiar look to it, but he’s too preoccupied to consider why.

Where are all the people?

‘Hello?’ he tries to say, but makes no sound. He tries again, this time with more effort. ‘Is anybody here? Can anybody hear me?!’ Still nothing. He moves off the road to a little grassy area beside an empty chicken coup. Even the livestock is missing.

This seems a cruel joke. First, he’s told he has a grand destiny to complete. One would presume a person must be alive to accomplish such a thing. Then he dies before he can do anything of significance and now, he can’t even rest in peace. This has to be a punishment, but he isn’t sure what he’s done to deserve it.

He stays there, wishing he knew what to do. Wishing he wasn’t so completely alone.

A thump jolts Merlin out of his wallowing session and he looks around, notices the sun has gone down. He turns in a circle, trying to decide if anything else is different besides the position of the sun, tries to assess where that sound had come from.

The flickering of candlelight shines in the windows of each house within Merlin’s view. He moves to the nearest such window and looks inside. A single candle sits in the middle of a table between a pair of bowls, which appear to contain a watery sort of soup. There is a hearth too, with a fire dancing merrily on a thick pile of glowing coals. But still, no people.

He peeks through several more windows with similar results. He notices another oddity as well. The strange washed-out nature of the world during the day has eased somewhat. Colours seems more alive by firelight than they had in sunlight. It still isn’t quite like it had been when he’d been alive, but it’s enough of a difference that he’s sure he’s not imagining it.

He circles back to where he’d started, notices the bowls are now empty and stacked together beside a bucket of water. There must be people about.

It isn’t like he doesn’t know that he’s dead. That he is… a ghost, he supposes. But he hadn’t realized how strange it would be. He’s not surprised that the living can’t see _him_ , but why can’t he see _them?_ They must be here. Maybe there is a trick to it? If nothing else, Merlin has a lot of time to figure it out if there is one.

Merlin keeps an eye on the houses. He never sees anything move—nothing but the flickering of the candle flames and hearth fires—but he can watch the progress of time as dinner implements are cleared away and knitting supplies, or leatherwork, or a torn garment show up in chairs next to the hearths.

He tries visualizing the people inside. What they must look like. The sorts of conversations they are having this very moment, that Merlin just can’t hear.

After a few hours more, the minor repairs that are easily completed at the end of the day disappear from Merlin’s view and candles start going out across the village. The people are heading to bed. Merlin wishes he could do the same. Instead, he wanders about some more. He still hasn’t figured out what made that sound earlier, but if he’d heard one sound, surely he could hear another.

Merlin’s on his third or fourth lap of the village when a low growling starts up nearby. He turns and moves in the direction of what Merlin suspects is a large dog. The growl turns to all out barking and when Merlin thinks he must be right in front of it, he sees a patch of grass being smashed beneath the paws of the agitated dog.

‘It’s all right. I’m not going to hurt you,’ Merlin tries to project to the animal. ‘I’m not a mean ghost.’

Another sound comes from inside the nearest house. The dog quiets for just a moment, then goes wild, growling and barking like its life depends on it. Maybe there’s some other animal nearby that has it so wound up. A deer off in the woods perhaps or a fox come to raid the chicken coup, which Merlin supposes isn’t empty after all.

It doesn’t take long for Merlin to grow tired of the barking. As soon as he wanders off, the ruckus dies down, and isn’t that interesting? He returns to the same spot as before and the commotion starts back up again. He moves another step forward and suddenly, the form of an intimidating black and tan dog is lunging at him, held back only by a length of rope tied to a nearby tree. Merlin shies back out of reflex, but can’t help but smile. ‘I can see you!’

Thick stands of slobber hang from its mouth as the dog bares its teeth and snaps its jaws in Merlin’s direction. 

‘Guess you can you see me, too, huh?’ He holds up his hands and backs away even further before he gives the poor animal a heart attack. He hadn’t meant to scare it.

Whatever is holding the rope to the dog’s collar breaks without warning and the dog bounds toward Merlin. The instinct to run is still fully intact and despite the knowledge that it doesn’t matter, Merlin takes off as fast as he can, heading for the shelter of the woods.

He doesn’t really have to move his legs—or what he imagines to be his legs. It is easier that way simply because he is used to it, but really, if he concentrates, he can glide along the ground at a rather brisk pace. Before long, the dog has given up chasing him, and Merlin hopes he’s gone back home, wishes it were that easy for him to go home too.

-x-x-

Arthur stumbles down the corridor, half aware that the few people that see him are staring. They’re all probably too dull-witted to know if they should help him to his rooms or if they should scurry away like everyone else has been doing lately. Merlin would have wrapped Arthur’s arm over his shoulder and dragged him up to his chambers. He might not have been good with the mundane chores, but he’d always been there when Arthur really needed him.

 _Until now,_ Arthur thinks bitterly. _Where the hell is he now?_

It takes him several tries to get his door opened and latched for the night.

There is a fire blazing in his rooms and his sleeping clothes are laid out on his bed, but there’s no one to be seen. Those annoyingly efficient servants have been doing Merlin’s job while Arthur’s been away. No doubt they’re purposely avoiding him now that he’s so foul to everyone.

He’d overheard a couple of them that afternoon, complaining about his mood.

“Don’t see what the big deal is. Merlin was a nice enough chap, I’ll grant you, but he was just a servant. And not a very good one at that. I don’t mean to speak ill of the dead, but even the boy admitted it. And the king, he said it all the time too. ‘Worst servant I ever met,’ and that’s a direct quote.”

Arthur had said that, and often. He shouldn’t have. It wasn’t true. Any minor failings Merlin might have had when it came to completing the normal duties of a manservant, he’d more than made up for simply by being himself—a loyal friend, a trusted advisor, an irreverent idiot. The thought nags at him. When he’d said things like that, Merlin had known he wasn’t serious, right? Arthur’s confidence is low, and it’s just one more thing to feel guilty about.

Arthur staggers his way over to his bed and sits on the edge with his back rounded and shoulders slumped. The room’s a little steadier now that he’s sitting, but his neck is still having a bit of trouble with the task of balancing his head. His eyes drift shut for a moment. His head begins to tip forward with sleep and he jerks back upright.

What is he doing again? He blinks a few times, stares at the floor, wants to tip over onto his side. Lay down on his—

Right. Bed.

He needs to change clothes. Hadn’t he just seen them? He pats the mattress on each side of him, finds a sleeve with his right hand, and gives it a tug. It doesn’t move. He tugs again, harder this time. Still nothing. It takes a few more moments for the situation to sink in. He’s sitting on his clothes.

He struggles to shed his jacket, tunic, boots, and trousers, struggles even more to fit his night shirt over his head, get his arms into the right holes. Drunk or no, this shouldn’t be so difficult. If Merlin were here… But he’s not. Never will be again.

 _How dare he go off and die like that._ _Never gave him permission to do that._

Arthur doesn’t bother with his sleeping trousers, more out of forgetfulness than a conscious decision, but it’s just as well. They’re not worth the effort. He flops into bed wearing nothing but his shirt and small clothes, stares up at the canopy.

He doesn’t want to think about Merlin right now, but his head is so full of the man, he crowds out everything else. Arthur’s eyes start to well up, and he growls at his lack of control. He wants to blame the wine, but that’s a lie. It’s often like this in quite moments of solitude when there’s no distractions and no one to put a mask on for. His mind drifts back, replaying that horrible day and each time, the Merlin shaped hole in his chest grows larger.

It’s been weeks. He’s past the shock, the fruitless denials. Now there’s just the pain and why hasn’t it started to ease yet? It’s as though the sword that had split Merlin’s neck had cracked Arthur’s heart wide open too, because he’s bleeding out just as surely as Merlin had.

-x-x-

By the time the sun starts rising again, Merlin is well away from the village and on his way to… Well, he has no idea where. He supposes he can go wherever he wants like this. He could cross the Great Seas of Meredor, see what lies beyond. He could go the ends of the earth. But what would he do there? He might have liked to have traveled when he was alive, but the idea holds little appeal now.

All he really wants, barring being alive again, is to see the people he cares about most. To see Arthur, Gaius, and his mum. To see Gwen and Gwaine. And… he needs to find some way, no matter how small, to help them through whatever trials are to come because Morgana is still out there, and someone has to protect Camelot from her injudicious use of magic and her crazed plots for revenge.

Trouble is… or rather, the first of his troubles in a long line of trouble, is that he has no idea where he is. He stops moving, giving himself over to thought for some time.

He doesn’t sleep. It isn’t like that. But after a while, he realizes that it is dark again and he can barely remember what has happened for the past several hours. It’s as if his self-awareness had drifted away, grown quite for a time. He’s back now though.

He takes in his surroundings. These woods are dense and the road narrow. He starts moving along in the same direction he’d been traveling before he stopped. It’s as good a direction as any.

When he notices a speck of light dancing about between branches and leaves, he pauses. After his disappointing experience in that village, he isn’t sure if he wants to try his hand at seeing who has created the fire.

From high overhead, an owl hoots and if he’d still possessed a body, he would have jumped. He makes a rather pathetic ghost. He’s the one that is supposed to startle the living, not the other way round.

He wonders briefly if the fact that he’s heard the owl means that the owl can sense him here. It gives him an idea, and he decides he’ll check out that fire after all.

Merlin approaches the campfire, noting the bedrolls spread haphazardly around it. Maybe everyone is asleep already. Merlin can’t see the moon through the foliage to be able to determine the time. The group likely has at least one man on guard duty. There’s always bandits to consider, after all.

Merlin decides the guard would be the best to test his theory on. He ghosts around the perimeter of the camp a few times with no success. He sees no one and apparently, no one sees or senses him. Maybe it’s only animals… Or certain people. Storytellers always have tales of people seeing ghosts. Usually, it is a person that has a certain sensitivity to such things, or someone deeply connected with the deceased. Does that mean Arthur might be able to sense him? Or Gaius? Gaius seems to be the more likely one to notice such a thing, if it really is possible.

When he thinks of Arthur and Camelot, he feels… something. Like a burr caught on his shirt, tugging at him. He ignores it.

‘I’m a spooky, spooky ghost,’ Merlin tries saying to the guard, wherever he might be. ‘You should be intimidated and afraid!’

Still nothing. Gods, this is boring. Worse than washing Arthur’s socks or mucking out his stables. At least when he’d been working on chores, he’d been accomplishing something. This is just wasting time, and he has an infinite amount of it. It isn’t even entertaining.

There is a sound then, but Merlin can’t place it. He moves toward it anyway. When he gets closer, it comes again. A horse, stamping a hoof on the bare earth.

‘Hey. Don’t be afraid of me. I’d give you an apple if I had one.’ _If I could carry one,_ Merlin thinks snidely.

Merlin waves his… whatever it is that he has, about. It’s probably easier to think of this in terms of still having a body, though he clearly does not. He looks down. He can see himself… Sort of. His coloration is all wrong, and he can see through whatever it is that he consists of now to the trees behind him. But his shape is still that of a man—the man he had been. So he waves his arms, his ghost arms, his spirt arms, whatever they are, in a wild fashion, trying to get the horse’s attention. It doesn’t seem to work until he moves forward a little more. The body of a shaggy mare pops into his view and she whinnies, pulling at the picket line where Merlin assumes other horses are tied that he just can’t see yet. She rolls her eyes and trembles. He takes a step back and holds up his hands placatingly. She stops pulling on the line, but her eyes still look panicked.

‘Sorry!’

This… well, this is well and truly awful. He doesn’t want to frighten everyone he interacts with.

“S’all right,” says a youthful sounding voice. “Just a mouse or something getting you spooked up.”

Merlin can’t see the boy, but the fact that he hears a human voice at all is exciting. Merlin mimes the motion of clapping his hands in excitement.

“See? Nothing to be afraid of.” The boy doesn’t sound convinced.

‘Hey, kid.’ Merlin tries saying. ‘Can you see ghosts?’

There’s no sound from the boy for several long moments. Then there is a flicker, just for a second. Merlin would almost have thought he was making it up but it happens again.

‘That’s right,’ Merlin projects. ‘I’m a ghost. Standing just a few paces away from you.’

“Someone out there?”

‘Yes!’

The boy spins, coming into full view. He has a torch in one hand and with the other, he pulls a short sword from his belt. He can’t be more than 14.

Merlin takes a step forward.

The boy’s gaze slides from left to right, obviously not seeing him. Merlin draws close enough to reach out and touch him. Or to try and touch him. As he expects, his insubstantial form passes right through the kid’s arm. The boy nearly jumps out of his skin, clamps a hand over his mouth to stop himself from screaming.

As much as he feels bad about scaring the kid, it’s good news. If people can sense him, he might have a chance at interacting. He won’t be trapped forever in this world with nothing to do but stand by and watch helplessly. Maybe he’ll be able to get Gaius to make up another batch of that vile potion that they’d used when Arthur had mistakenly unleased Uther’s ghost on Camelot. And that’s a strangely comforting memory, because if Uther could figure out how to interact with the mortal world as a ghost, Merlin would be able to as well. Arthur would be able to see him. And his mother, too. Gods, does she even know he’s gone yet? She’ll be heartbroken when she finds out, but maybe he can give her some comfort if he can figure this all out.

The boy waves his sword through the air in a mockery of proper form and technique, but it’s not really fair to judge his skill against Arthur and his knights. Merlin has no doubt that this boy has no training and based on the way his hands tremble, he’s scared out of his wits. The kid makes a haphazard slashing motion in Merlin’s direction, and the movement draws Merlin’s attention to the strips of fabric tied around his upper arm. This is the same arm band he’d seen worn by each of the bandits that had raided that village, by the men who’d killed him.

A surge of bright hot rage fills him. He throws his head back and lets loose a terrible scream. The bandit’s camp explodes into view before him. Men tumble out of their bedrolls half naked, shouting and blubbering amongst themselves. Merlin doesn’t have to breath anymore so his ghostly shriek goes on and on. He isn’t a violent person by nature, but these are the men who slaughtered countless women and children during their raid. These are the men who separated him from Arthur.

The picket line breaks and a dozen or more startled horses sprint off into the night. Merlin hopes they won’t stop until they are too far away for the bandits to catch. He hopes the bandits won’t take it upon themselves to raid yet another village to replace their mounts. He can’t have that.

Merlin hasn’t tried to use magic since he lost his body. He’d been a mortal man with mortal magic. Surely, he wouldn’t be able to use it now that he is dead. He feels… something though. Different from magic. He channels his rage and fury into the fire in the middle of the camp and the flames leap higher than the tallest of the men.

For the first time, Merlin notices a pair of young women, maybe only a few years younger than himself, bound in chains and tied to a large tree some distance from the fire. They cling to each other and look about with eyes huge with fear but make no sound.

Merlin’s anger increases and the flames soar even higher, begin sparking onto the ground, catching fire to the bandits’ bedrolls. He screams again and the new fires spread.

He crosses through the flames to the girls, channels his anger into the chains around their dirty and bruised hands and feet. The metal snaps with a resounding crack.

‘Run!’

And they do. He is fairly certain at least one of them can see him. She looks into his eyes without flinching and grabbing her companion’s hand, pulls her out into the woods.

Merlin might go a bit overboard after that. He isn’t even sure what he is doing. Only that he has to protect others from suffering his fate.

By the time the sun comes up, the bandits are completely out of sight. He doesn’t know if that is because they’ve all run away or because they’ve simply slipped back out of view.

Dealing with those bandits had been mentally—or perhaps it was spiritually—draining. He spends a significant period of time in that not really sleeping state that he decides to call “resting” for lack of a better word. It’s more than a day, but Merlin can’t tell how many.

When he’s recovered the will to move on, he decides that the next village he runs into, he’ll try to find out where he is and how to get to Camelot. He is traveling west, which he assumes is the proper direction. It would make sense if he’d been sent back to the mortal realm near the same spot where he’d left it and the village where he’d been killed had been near the eastern border. This path doesn’t look familiar though so he is fairly certain this isn’t the road he and Arthur had come in on. This isn’t discouraging. They’d been on patrol; they hadn’t gone to the village straight from Camelot, but he intends to go straight back.

At the thought of Arthur, that little pulling sensation comes back. This time, he takes a moment to properly analyze it. The last time he’d felt it, he’d been thinking about Arthur too. Maybe that means something. He does another experiment. He pictures Arthur’s features. The broad grin he gets when Merlin has said something so clever that he can’t suppress his reaction. He imagines the ridiculous nicknames and the verbal sparring they’d perfected into an art form. He thinks of the way Arthur had sometimes looked at him. Though he knew it was foolish and ridiculous, when Arthur looked at him so intently, he’d liked to imagine that Arthur held the same kinds of thoughts buried deep in his heart that Merlin kept locked away in his.

The tugging sensation grows a little more prominent so he keeps going. He imagines never seeing Arthur again. The idea of that reality sends a new wave of anger through him. He manages to keep himself from exploding like he had with the bandits, but it’s a near thing. He wonders if all ghosts are this unstable from an emotional perspective.

_Arthur…_

He wonders if Arthur misses him at all, or if he’s already replaced him with a new servant. Someone infinitely more suited to the job. Someone who is on time for everything and who scrubs the floors and launders the clothes and tidies up all without Arthur having to say a word. Arthur’s new servant probably agrees with everything Arthur says, and the thought makes him a little sick. But… what if Arthur is happier for it?

The tugging becomes a pull and without even realizing it, Merlin zips along through the forest, no longer following the path, passing through trees and shrubs and even a herd of deer on one occasion. He tries not to think about it too much. He doesn’t have eyes to close, but he keeps his thoughts on Arthur and what he’s going to do when he gets to Camelot and that keeps him distracted for quite a while. He needs a plan, but the best he can come up with is to experiment and practice.

Merlin sees the outline of Camelot on the horizon before he really comprehends what is happening. He’s been zipping through the countryside for several days and he’s found that he can let his mind rest pretty well when he travels like this.

It takes him a couple of tries to figure out how to stop moving in this way, but he thinks he’ll be able to replicated it again if he needs to. It’s past dark by the time he arrives, and the hazy silhouette of a pair of guards stands watch at the main gate. Merlin could have just as easily passed right though the walls, but he prefers going the traditional way now that he’s paying full attention to his surroundings again.

‘Evening gentleman. A little on edge already, are we? That suites me just fine.’

One of the guards gives an audible shudder, and Merlin grins.

“What’s wrong?”

“Sudden chill.”

One of the guard’s outline looks a bit more prominent. Merlin focuses hard and finds that if he concentrates just right, he can still make out the vague form of the man even after he appears to have settled down.

Although everyone inside is likely to be asleep, Merlin knows exactly where he wants to go first. He moves through the empty halls and corridors to Arthur’s room where he is at last forced to go through Arthur’s closed and barred door. As unnerving as that is for him, it is good in one way. It’s confirmation that Arthur is inside.

Merlin pauses after he enters the room. He wants to see Arthur so badly, but there’s no guarantee that he’ll be successful. He steadies his courage and moves deeper into the room. There’s a fire banked for the night and no candles lit. Arthur must be sleeping or at least trying to. That tugging sensation from earlier is still with him even though he’s made it all the way back to Camelot, but he doesn’t need that feeling to know that he wants to move closer to the bed.

Arthur hasn’t drawn his bed curtains and a pale beam of moonlight shines through the window and onto the bed. The blankets are a little mussed, but Arthur is out of sight. Merlin stands there, tries focusing on Arthur like he’d done with the guard. It doesn’t help. A burst of anger had helped him with the bandits, but Merlin’s a little wary of trying that method. He doesn’t want to lose control again. It had felt too much like being strapped to the saddle of a runaway horse with his hands tied behind his back and his magic out of reach. He could burn out Arthur’s chambers or worse.

‘Arthur? Arthur, it’s me. Merlin. I’m here. I’ve come back.’

Merlin waits for a response, a glimmer of movement, anything. There’s nothing.

He steps even closer, right up to the edge of the bed. It isn’t that he wants to scare Arthur, but if this is the only way he’ll be able to see him, Merlin has to try. He reaches out, passes his hand through the space where Arthur must be, hoping for any sort of reaction. Then he tries again. And again. And one last time before giving up for the night. He should have known that Arthur wouldn’t be sensitive to this sort of thing.

He wants to fully attribute the lack of response to Arthur being asleep, but the truth is that Arthur is often oblivious to things sitting on full display in front of him—Merlin’s magic being just one in a long line of examples. Morgana, Agravaine, anything even remotely related to tender feelings of the heart… If Merlin is to have any chance of making this work, it’s going to be up to him to make it happen.

He’ll try again in the morning, but for now… For now, he’s content enough to just stay close.

‘I haven’t figured this all out yet, but I will. I swear I will and I’ll help you. Somehow. I’ll find a way—protect you from Morgana and whatever other threats you face. Just like I’ve always done, from the shadow.’ Merlin gives a sad, bitter little laugh. ‘It won’t be so different from before. You won’t even notice the difference.’


End file.
